The Boy Who Would Be King
by MendaciousMinx
Summary: Every skeleton was flesh and blood once, and the Pumpkin King is no exception. Little Jack Skiles loves Halloween, and hates the other children. What happens when bullying drives him to the graveyard and he meets an interesting character?


A/N: I'm not sure what this is, but it's cute. I drew a picture of Jack Skiles (such a nice boy), but until I figure out the scanner I'm afraid you'll have to use your imaginations.

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Little Jack Skiles had always been a morbid child. He spent more time lurking in graveyards than playing with the other boys in the neighborhood, and was never one to object to a good Shakespearian tragedy. He loved the theater, and had memorized all of Hamlet by the age of nine. 

He was taller than all of the other boys his age, and thin as a rail, with pale skin and platinum blond hair. While most of his peers wore suits of general sizes, his structure was so unique that his had to be tailored specifically for him. Taunts followed him at school, the most common of which was "Jack Skellington". The children meant to say "Skeleton", of course, but they were dumb little things.

Despite all of his strangeness, or perhaps because of it, he shared the other children's love for Halloween. As he grew older his liking for the holiday became something of a passion, and the other children became more original in their taunts. "Jack-O-Lantern" was now the most popular jeer, and on Halloween it was the worst.

It was the Halloween of his thirteenth year when he was ambushed on his way home from school. Five boys surrounded him, shouting "Jack-O-Lantern, Jack-O-Lantern!" One of them held up a pumpkin carved with a gruesome face, and shoved it over his head. A second, still chanting, pushed a lit candle through one of the eye holes and laughed. The flame burned Jack's cheek, thankfully missing his eye, and he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from crying out. The boys ran home at the sound of approaching footsteps, and Jack himself ran blindly away. He did not want to be discovered like this.

He stopped running when he reached the graveyard, and sank to his knees beside a tombstone. Pulling the pumpkin off of his head and tossing it aside, he began to slowly pick pieces of it out of his hair while nursing the burn. He did not cry. Jack seldom cried, and could not, in fact, remember any time at which he had. It was for the best.

Having removed most of the fragments of pumpkin from his silvery hair, he turned to see who owned the tombstone he was leaning against.

_James Samson_

He noted the similarity between his initials and those of the stiff. "I hate irony," he growled, flopping back onto the ground only to yelp when he felt his head plunge into something icy and damp. Sitting bolt upright, he turned to stare at a pair of legs. His eyes rose, up and up and up, until they lit on the face of a tall young man with brown hair and freckled skin.

"Hello there, little sir," the man said curtly, raising an eyebrow.

Jack jumped to his feet, coattails swinging, disregarding the icy feeling for the moment. "Good evening, sir. My apologies for not acknowledging you sooner. I did not hear you approach."

"The living seldom do," the man said, shrugging and sitting gracefully atop James Samson's tombstone. "It's having a substantial brain that does it. Too much clutter, not enough attentiveness."

"And you have otherwise?" Jack asked, folding his lanky body to perch on an adjacent stone.

"My consciousness is unbound by a brain. I am everywhere at once. I simply formed a visible self so that you wouldn't think I was a voice in your head. It's so irritating when people have themselves committed because of a simple conversation."

"You're a spirit, then?"

"A ghost, really. James Samson's the name." He extended a hand, but Jack simply eyed it with distaste.

"You don't really expect me to make a fool of myself trying to shake a hand that isn't there, do you?"

Mr. Samson clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Rude but clever little boys find themselves deprived of joys."

Sighing, Jack extended a hand and was surprised to find that Mr. Samson was now quite substantial. After shaking the man's hand, he withdrew his own and looked perplexed. "I'm Jack Skiles, and that was unexpected."

"Life is full of things that are," Mr. Samson said cheerfully, "like rats that jump out of your cupboards when you open them, and floorboards that break under you. If you expected everything that could ever happen, you'd be too scared to wiggle your toes."

"I suppose you make a valid point," Jack said skeptically, running a hand through his hair and retrieving a few more stringy pumpkin innards in the process.

"Good heavens, what happened to you?" Mr. Samson said, noticing the bits of pumpkin surrounding them for the first time.

"The human race," Jack replied, flicking the orange strings off of his fingers. "but mostly those horrible children."

"Hypocrite."

"Worm-food."

"Jack-O-Lantern."

_"Mr. Samson."_

"What?"

"Don't."

James glanced up to see that the boy's face was as impassive as ever, but upon closer inspection he noted a terrible fire in his eyes that hadn't been there before. He barely managed to keep his substantial body from expressing his alarm, and yawned loudly to disguise it.

"Well, young master Skiles, I'm afraid I have an urgent appointment elsewhere." With that, James Samson blinked out of visible existence.

For a moment, Jack stared at the place where the deceased man had been. Then, long legs unfolding carefully, he began the long walk home.

Upon reaching his destination, a furry black bundle leaped into his arms and a pink tongue assaulted his face. "Hello, Zero." Smiling lightly, he set the dog down and proceeded into the house, coattails swishing behind him.

"Well, I'll be," James muttered, perching on the fence outside the boy's home.

At the sound of an approaching wheelchair, the ghost turned his head to peer at Doctor Finkelstein. The crippled genius adjusted his tinted glasses before speaking. "Well, you got to see him. Now come on, we have to get back. I don't want to be here when those horrible trick-or-treaters start their rampage. Besides, I've left Sally home alone. By the time I get back, my possessions will all be broken. That clumsy little creature..."

James stood, walking to the doctor's wheelchair. For all Finkelstein complained about his twelve-year-old creation, he knew that Sally was like a daughter to the old man.

Taking one last glance at the house which belonged to the boy who, one day, was destined to be King, James and Finkelstein vanished into thin air.


End file.
